


Bilbo does Time Travel

by Afrokot



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Gen, M/M, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travelling Bilbo Baggins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25743901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afrokot/pseuds/Afrokot
Summary: Post-BoFA Bilbo time travels to the pre-Smaug Erebor. He tries to warn everyone of the impending danger and ends up taking the matter into his own hands. The future changes.A detailed exploration of the idea.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 19
Kudos: 207





	1. Chapter 1

Post-BoFA Bilbo time travels to the pre-Smaug Erebor. He tries to warn everyone of the impending danger, but the general reaction to him is bafflement and a series of really complicated facial expressions that usually stops at disturbed curiosity. Nobody in Erebor has ever seen a hobbit. Some — the oldest and most worldly merchants — have heard of them, of course, but your average Shmoe? Nope.

Only two dwarves are willing to listen to him: adolescent—barely out of diapers, really—Thorin, who’s crushing on Bilbo like an anvil crushes peanuts, and even younger Frerin, who is, apparently, a Kíli to Thorin’s Fíli, though with a reversed colouring, and also his best friend.

“Are you an elfling?” a young voice asks. Bilbo whirls around and is gobsmacked at the sight of Thorin’s adorably chubby cheeks.

“No, silly,” a higher-pitched voice replies, “look at his _feet!_ ”

“But his ears!” Thorin protests, turning to a blond dwarfling. “And only elves don’t have beards. Where’s his beard?”

Bilbo clears his throat. “The trolls did away with it.”

“No!” breathes Thorin, blue eyes saucer-wide. “Really?”

So, Bilbo gains a following of the royal siblings who pester him for stories and hang on his every word. The dwarflings cause mischief to raise awareness (like, people are on the lookout for their pranks all the time now, it’s that bad), and Bilbo? Bilbo sees King Thrór, already neck-deep in gold sickness, the Arkenstone shining from his throne, and goes _Nope, not happening_. _Nuh-huh_.

Late at night, he sneaks into the throne room, pries the Arkenstone out of its casing, and smashes it to dust with a borrowed hammer. The dust he pours into a lava pit, just in case. _That should take care of it,_ Bilbo thinks, brushing his hands, and goes to return the hammer. There isn’t a dearth of them — it being a dwarven kingdom — but he isn’t a _thief_ , no matter Gandalf’s opinion.

Over pints of ale in one of Dale’s taverns, Bilbo develops an odd friendship with Girion while commiserating about dwarven stubbornness. He’s the first human Bilbo convinces to help.

“You aren’t losing anything, are you?” Bilbo asks. “If a dragon comes, you are prepared to deal with him, and if not, well” — he shrugs like he doesn’t really care — “then all is good, and I’m just a loon of a hobbit.”

When Smaug appears, Bilbo, who’s been basically living on the Wind lance for the past few weeks, hollers, _“The dragon! Girion, you blasted Man, get your stupid arse here already!”_

And Girion, plagued by nightmares that feature quite heavily fire-breathing lizards destroying his city, bolts out of bed already in street clothes and sprints to the lance.

Not fast enough for Bilbo’s liking, though.

 _What’s taking him so long?_ Tapping with his foot, Bilbo bites a fingernail. It feels like Smaug’s been circling overhead for hours. Even as he watches, the dragon’s chest expands. Smaug’s gearing up for the second bout of fire spitting, and Bilbo mutters, “Blast it!” and aims an arrow. There are plenty of them; even if he misses, they can spare a couple. He pestered Girion into showing him how to load the lance ages ago and insisted on keeping it primed. He’ll reload it afterwards.

So Bilbo tracks Smaug’s progress across the sky. The east part of the city is aflame. People are shouting and running around; dogs are barking; other domestic animals are making all kinds of alarmed noises. Eyes narrow and brows furrowed, Bilbo waits until Smaug glides lower. The dragon opens his maw, razor-sharp teeth glinting like stars. Bilbo remembers those teeth, how the dragon’s breath smelt like death. He holds his breath and triggers the release mechanism. The arrow soars. Hits. And Smaug’s gleeful roar transforms into that of pain and anger. With sweaty hands, Bilbo starts to reload the lance.

“Let me,” Girion says, catching the pointy end of a Black arrow before Bilbo drops it and pulling it up with ease. The whole thing is as tall as an adult hobbit and weights like half of one.

“Stopped for a cup of tea, did you?” Bilbo snaps, taking a step back and out of the way. “Read a storybook? Drew a painting?”

“Came as soon as I could.” Girion huffs. With a quick swipe of his arm, he wipes his forehead before sweat can get into his eyes. Aims. Fires. Misses. But Bilbo’s already there, right next to him, another enormous arrow ready for use.

The dragon’s fly is uneven now. He loses altitude; the flames he spits are aimless and more an expression of his suffering than an attack. He flies in a circle, aimless, an arrow protruding from his left eye.

Gideon’s next shot hits true, but the arrow doesn’t penetrate Smaug’s thick skin, only loosens a scale. A few nerve-wracking minutes later, however, he is successful. A black arrow pierces the unprotected spot, and roaring, Smaug falls into the river below, a threat no more. The immediate danger is over. Bilbo… can’t believe it. His heart thundering in his chest still, his arms aching after all that heavy lifting, he breathes in the smoke and ashes and doesn’t quite know what to do next.

“It’s over,” he murmurs, and Girion laughs, wide-eyed and high on adrenaline.

“Right. You were right. How—” Girion shakes his head, laughs again. “No matter. The dragon. We killed a dragon, Bilbo. A dragon!”

“Yes, yes, it was impressive. Good shots. Nice of you.” Bilbo nods. Nothing feels real.

“Thank you. Thank you! Thank you so much,” Girion says, his words tumbling out and mashing together in haste to get out. He throws his arms around Bilbo and whirls him around, and Bilbo’s feet hit the walls — there’s not enough space left with the lance — and Gideon jabs an elbow into the lance itself, which surely hurts, but neither of them cares, because Smaug is dead. It’s over.

“It’s over,” Bilbo says. Or it should be soon. The fires are still going strong around Dale. So as soon as Girion releases him, they both take a moment to calm down and then, Bilbo goes to join the Womenfolk, efficient and well organised, in putting the fires out.


	2. Chapter 2

In the aftermath of Smaug's death, Bilbo is left at loose ends. What he assumed was his purpose is done and over with now. He can go home to the Shire and— But can he? There he is an unknown nobody with no friends and no familiar faces. Over a hundred years in the past, even his grandfather isn't born yet. Probably. He isn't actually sure what the date is. He needs to find out. But either way, a Hobbit coming to the Shire claiming to be a Baggins would raise more than one pair of eyebrows.

While hobbits are notorious for having large families, they do keep track of all their relatives. Bilbo learnt the names of all his aunts, uncles, cousins, and so on, and so forth, including great-great-great-grandmother Primrose Took and the tale of her famous mushroom soup at his mother's knee.

He can't come as a Baggins, but nothing stops him from taking another surname. He isn't sturdy or hairy enough to be a Stoor, which means the Marish and Buckland are out, but he can claim to be from Bree-land. A Lightfoot? They are numerous enough and have few relations within the Shire. That could work.

But what will he do? With no home, few possessions of any kind and, at this point, no money? Well, Bilbo reasons, he isn't half bad with plants. He is no Gamgee, of course, but what self-respecting hobbit doesn't know his way around a veggies patch? He can be a farmhand, or, indeed, a grocer, or he can, dare he thinks it, raid a troll hoard and buy a plot of land.

Or, as it turns out, he can stay right where he is, in Dale. Apparently, being one of the two heroes to slay a dragon is a rewarding position. Girion, brimming with gratitude, gifts him a house. Bilbo is taken aback by the gesture. In his experience, property doesn’t just sit around unoccupied, but, as Girion explains it, there were casualties. As tragic as that is, the dragon’s raid left empty spaces. So, Bilbo gets a reputation of a crack shot and a hut —by Man standards—with a bit of land attached. He stays.

Meanwhile, in Erebor: there the dragon made only a brief appearance, more to ramp up the fear than to attack at that point. Smaug flew to snack on Dale's citizens first before he would have returned to the mountain for the main course. That, obviously, didn’t happen, and Erebor got a scare, all right, but singed gates aren't too horrible. The dwarves, of course, are grateful for Bilbo's timely warning —in retrospect, they should have believed him, should they? But _how did he know?_ — and for his and Girion's expert aiming skills, but they have another problem, one much closer to home.

The Arkenstone is still missing. Well, duh. Bilbo made sure not to leave even a trace of it. But the whole mountain is in an uproar, searching for the king's most valued treasure. Thrór blamed the elves, Men, and even several prominent dwarven clans. He's said to have shouted, "Thieves, thieves everywhere!" before ordering all able-bodied population to mobilise and do a very thorough search of the kingdom and shutting himself in the treasury.

"Blasted rock," Bilbo mutters upon hearing the news, "causing problems even from beyond the grave. Damned gold sickness!"

For a while, there's no good news and not even a promise of aid for Dale. The dwarves comb the mountain from top to bottom with predictable results, and Bilbo fears they will get into conflict with the elves. That business with White Rocks of Somewhere with Thranduil is fresh and clearly unresolved.

In Dale, the Men rebuild whatever buildings they can and wait for the dwarven constructors to become available for the city walls. Everybody knows they do the best quality, and besides, the existing walls are also of dwarven make. So while Bilbo plants a garden and searches for a new occupation, the Erebor is on lockdown, searching for thieves and a rock.

Then, as suddenly as it came, their isolation is over. One clear morning, the doors of the gate are thrown open, and dwarven merchants stream into Dale. The news is all over Bilbo's neighbourhood by second breakfast. As rumours and gossip tell it, the king is still in his treasury, refusing to leave it for any reason, and all he talks about is the Arkenrock. His wife and son are the only people he allows in. The title of Mad King is forever his by elevenses.

Soon, someone saying 'the dwarven king' will mean Thráin, who in actuality is only a regent and remain just that until Thrór's quiet death seven decades later.

In the now, Bilbo goes about finding a job by trying everything that's offered. He scribes for one merchant, translates documents for another, does accounting for a household. Small and large, jobs of all sizes fall onto his path by word of mouth and curiosity. He does visit the mountain eventually, of course, although it feels awkward, him being the cause for the upheaval. Can't forget about his adolescent sidekicks, however.

Thorin and Frerin are ready to start a cult in his name, Bilbo discovers, that's how bad the hero-worship has gotten. Cooped up in the royal wing for several months, they only had rumours to go on, but Bilbo's prowess is elevated to Man height.

"I'm no prophet! I don't have a prescient bone in my body!" Bilbo exclaims, confronted with starry-eyed requests for predictions. Around them, the Upper-Level market place is full of activity. With Erebor open again, many Men came to do their shopping. They pay him no minds, but a curious glance from a guard has Bilbo returning to the average speaking volume. "I'm just a regular hobbit, with no magical abilities, thank you very much."

"But you knew about the dragon! Weeks ahead!" Thorin insists, stubborn even at the tender age of twenty-four, which is a tender age indeed, considering that dwarves come of age at forty and reach adulthood at seventy. "You must have had a vision!"

Frerin nods vigorously, the silver beads in the thin braids by the sides of his face clinking.

"Must I?" Bilbo chuckles, imagining himself looking into a fire, waiting for visions. Not likely. "Then you will be disappointed to hear that it was common sense."

The starry-eyed expressions melt into frowns of disbelieve.

"How so?" Frerin asks, narrowing his eyes. For a nineteen years old, he is awfully perceptive.

"Dragons love gold and treasures, and Erebor has the vastest collection this side of the Misty Mountains, or, perhaps," Bilbo amends, "in the whole of Middle-Earth."

"That is true," Thorin allows, and Bilbo starts to relax, but— "But how did you know there was a living dragon at all and that he will attack us soon?"

And Bilbo flounders. He can't very well admit to time travel, and neither can he suggest Gandalf's involvement — too easy to disprove. He can, however — a light flares up in his head — implicate another wizard.

"All right, you caught me. Well done!" He leans closer, and the dwarflings lean closer to him; they are, all three of them, about the same height. “I'll tell you the truth.” Bilbo lowers his voice to a fraction above a whisper, "But only if you can keep a secret. Can you?"

Of course, they can. They do _so_ can, the dwarflings swear, that no stinking orc or elf — equally stinking, Bilbo assumes — will pry that secret out of them with their horrible tortures of thumbscrews and green veggies, especially the leafy kinds.

"In my travels," Bilbo confides, satisfied with their reassurances, "I've met a Man. That Man, I will not name him for while names are important, sometimes, it's best to keep them secret, too." The dwarflings nod in understanding.

"He was a fellow wanderer, dark of skin and light of eyes. He wore the bright colours of the far south, and when he slept, he murmured in a language I never heard. He wasn't a talkative Man by nature, and when he spoke, his Westron was beautifully accented. It was like discovering a waterfall in a land of endless sand, all his words carried a well of meaning.'

We walked together for some time, crossing over Dunland and the Misty Mountains before he told me of a wizard he had met in his youth, which passed many summers back. His hair was stark white of a respected elderly."

"But uncle Fundin's hair is white, and he isn't old," Frerin protest.

"His hair is _Mithril_ white, not _Man_ white. Now, shh!" Thorin replies.

Frerin adopts a chastised look, and Bilbo continues the tale.

“That wizard, the Man said, told him of a dragon coming to a mountain that stands alone."

"Erebor," Frerin exhales, his eyes widening.

"Yes, that was my guess as well." Bilbo nods. “The Man, though, didn't believe him, for the wizard talked about something far into the future. 'The youth often views its sunset age as a far-off country, you see,' he told me, and so, he put the warning out of his mind. But as the Man felt his time in this world started to run shorter, he dreamed of fire, a city and a mountain set aflame and all within and outside blackened and scorched."

The dwarflings inhale sharply.

“Of course, the Man didn’t know if those dreams meant anything or if they were simply his imagination." Bilbo shrugs. "He wasn't a wizard, was he? But he worried, and he didn't want to let something bad happen if he could prevent it."

"He was a noble Man," Thorin says approvingly.

“He was,” Bilbo agrees, “and he was afraid that he wouldn’t come in time to warn you. And rightfully so! Two days later, we were separated!”

Here, Bilbo weaves the story of his adventures under the Misty Mountains, doing Gollum’s voices and repeating the riddles, and thus inadvertently cementing his reputation of the badest of badasses. A small, somewhat plump, unassuming person, Bilbo was already the mightiest hero to ever hero after his retelling of the troll incident and the first fight with the orcs; really, the dragon-slaying was par for the course.

“For a week, I waited on the slope of the mountains, staying on the outskirts of a grove near the road we were talking of taking, but he never appeared. And to this day, I do not know what became of him,” Bilbo says with a faraway look, thinking of the fates of the members of the Company, which he will never know. They won’t be the same, at any rate, now.

“The Man didn't want to be known for this possible prediction. He was adamant about it. In keeping his involvement quiet, I'm honouring his wishes,” Bilbo finishes.

“We understand,” Thorin says, glancing at his brother, who seems to agree. "We won't tell anyone."

They want to grow up to be just like Bilbo and wander the Middle-earth and kill monsters with skill and wit. Of course, they won't disappoint him.

"Now, tell me what have your tutors had you studying since I saw you last," Bilbo says, and the dwarflings groan but dutifully comply.

* * *

As people get used to his presence, Bilbo gets to know his neighbours better, forms friendships and business contacts. His relationships with Girion and the dwarven princes continue to grow, putting down roots deep into his soul like tenacious trees. Dale gets rebuilt, and everything returns to the pre-dragon normal.

The royal family expands. Now, there's a princess! And even though by dwarven tradition the outsiders can't see dwarflings until they are ten years old, Bilbo feels like he already knows the princess by her first summer. Thorin and Frerin gush about Dís all the time and show Bilbo all of her miniature paintings.

Apparently, they do the same to Dís about Bilbo, because when she is two, Bilbo receives his own portrait. He is a round blob with a yellow squiggle on top, but the sword in his hand is unmistakable. He frames the drawing and places it on his desk, and on his birthday gifts sends her the first copy of a storybook he finishes.

Life goes on. Time passes.


	3. Chapter 3

Time passes. Girion’s hair turns grey, his skin wrinkles. He steps down, and his son takes over the governing of Dale.

It's harder to notice among dwarves, whose appearance stays majorly the same once they step into adulthood, but everyone in Dale changes, and Bilbo? Bilbo doesn't. No matter how many years pass, his curls are the wheat blond they were at the time of the Quest; his eyesight is as sharp as ever. No new aches pain his limbs, no illness shortens his breath. He doesn't notice it at first, and there's no one familiar enough with hobbits to call attention to the issue. It takes decades for the realisation to arrive. Before that happens, however, many events take place.

Bilbo writes storybooks, translates elven texts, keeps accounting books. His garden flourishes. Time passes, and the royal siblings step out of adorable childhood into awkward youth that gradually transitions to maturity.

About two decades after the Smaug Incident, an elven delegation comes to Erebor to inquire about the White Gems, the royal siblings confide to Bilbo. But Thrór is still the king, even if in name only: "While my father lives, there will be no more talk of them," Thráin declared to an irate and frustrated party. Empty-handed, the elves turned around and left, reportedly swearing at the dwarves in their native tongue.

"How do you know they weren't admiring the splendour of the halls or commenting on the travel arrangements?" Bilbo asks Frerin, who gleefully delivered that detail.

"Please," Frerin scoffs, his eyes full of mirth of an accomplished mischief-maker. "I heard them myself. Even if my Sindarin isn't fluent, I'd recognise that tone anywhere."

"And what were you doing eavesdropping on your father's meeting?" Bilbo cocks his head to the side, biting the inside of his lips to hide his amusement at the speed with which Frerin's expression changes.

"Oh. Uh." Frerin glances at Thorin.

"We need to know what the enemy plans," Thorin says, sounding like he is quoting someone. Probably, his estranged grandfather, who's still living in the treasury.

"Elves are not the enemy."

"Hn."

Bilbo sighs.

So the tension between the two neighbouring kingdoms remains. Trade routes become more and more strained and harder to maintain, but that trend started long before Bilbo appeared and would have continued regardless of Smaug.

Time passes. Frerin and Dís who Bilbo haven't met in the previous timeline become formidable, accomplished dwarves in their own right. With each passing year, Thorin looks more and more like the dwarf Bilbo first met, but his frowns aren't heavy, and his countenance is unburdened by decades of hardship and stress. And as he grows, his puppy love for Bilbo grows and changes with him.

In his forties, Thorin strives to impress his hero: he trains with all weapons he can think of, even a bow, and masters a sword and an axe. He chooses a craft. Over the decades, he tries different musical instruments and settles on the harp, which he perfects. At fifty, he joins the patrols of the roads going up to the Mirkwood border, hoping to encounter orcs and wargs or, at least, an odd bandit, but nothing comes so far out of the woods.

At seventy, he's yet to grow more than a short beard. He is a handsome and—finally—fully-grown dwarf.

The darkness in Mirkwood spreads. The main forest road, easily passable at the beginning of Thrór's reign, is all but untraversable without a guide, and the elves aren't too keen on providing aid to dwarven caravans. Of course, they still do it — it's a matter of pride. But Erebor, too, sends escorts of their own. Thorin and Frerin want to join, but to send a prince, let alone two, to their semi-hostile neighbours seems impolitic. Their father refuses, leaving the older of the siblings to seethe and brood in silent discontent while the middle one devices ways around that decision.

Frerin is caught dressed in common armour with a close helm twice — the second time actually in Mirkwood — and is escorted back home with a polite but strongly worded warning from the gruff patrol leader before he—temporarily—gives up. He will reach adulthood in five years. He can wait it out and try his luck later. Dís just laughs in their faces every time they complain about their perceived misfortune.

Meanwhile, there are talks of Moria. They start as whispers. Erebor is stable, and the citizens are content, but everyone has kin living in less fortuitous circumstances, don't they? If they could take on a dragon — _‘Who are those they?’_ Bilbo wonders — and win, surely beating back the orcs occupying their ancestral home—their right, their legacy—won't be so hard as that. And Durin's Bain? It must be asleep if not dead by now.

Nobody knows who starts these whispers. A pervasive rumour goes up from all corners seemingly at once: a merchant in a marketplace makes an off-hand comment to a chatty customer; a banker ponders aloud the advantages of expansion; a beggar on a street corner extols the properties of mithril to an urchin. Suddenly, it's everywhere, and a campaign for Moria is a done deal. More and more its old name, Khazad-dûm, resurfaces. And worst of all? Thráin considers it.

"No. No, no, no. You can't go there. Nothing good will ever come out of it!" Bilbo exclaims upon hearing the news and is instantly met with two pairs of affronted eyes.

"And why is that?" Thorin asks through gritted teeth. "We are as capable as any other soldier of the royal army."

"Of course, you are," Bilbo says, nonplused at the reaction. "That wasn't in doubt."

"Then what is? We have the force to drive the orcs out of our old halls, stop their sullying the memory of our forebears. Why shouldn't we do it?"

In truth, Thorin isn't all that enthused about marching to Moria. He'd much rather he and Frerin go cull spiders — reenact childhood games in real life and show up the elves all in one go. But he will take what he can. There hasn't been any hostile actions along Erebor's borders or roads around the mountain in all of his memory and thus no chance to prove his worth and prowess to the hobbit of his dreams. And oh, does he want to prove himself to Bilbo! He's been pining for the hobbit for ages without any respite, it seems. But what is he to do? Disobey direct orders and run to Mirkwood anyway? He isn't Frerin; he'd rather avoid the humiliation of being caught and frog-marched back home like a dwarfling playing dress-up with adad's armour and a training sword.

"Just trust me, going to Moria is a bad idea," Bilbo says, frowning with mighty disapproval, his mind awhirl with plans. He doesn't have sway with Thráin or any of the noble houses. He might get an audience, but that would be it. And even if he somehow manages to persuade Thráin to the futility of the endeavour, the people would still expect something to happen. Put under pressure, the de facto ruler will, in the end, cave under the expectations. If not now, then in ten, twenty years in the future. When the whole kingdom wants something, it's really hard to refuse. It is, perhaps, even close to impossible without becoming a tyrant, and Thráin doesn't come across as the type.

And Bilbo, who remembers the story of Azanulbizar quite well, breaks into cold sweat. Fear grips his inside and squeezes his heart. He remembers the helplessness and powerlessness he felt staring up at Azog as the orc was about to kill Thorin, recalls the desperation and horror of the battle that cost the dwarf his life and the lives of his nephews. He also is quite suddenly sure that if he is to do nothing, to let the events play out as they want, he won't greet Frerin back from the war. His friend will die on the same battlefield he did in the timeline that was. And Bilbo? Bilbo is a proactive hobbit.

"All right," he murmurs, eyes distant and calculating. Let fate try to rob him of his friends again. He won't let it, or he will die trying. Bilbo nods. "All right." And turning on his heels, he storms off without another word.

The princes exchange a look.

"That was peculiar," Frerin says.

Thorin shrugs in a tell-me-about-it sort of way. He doesn't have any more clue what that was about than his brother. Their younger cousin—and close friend—Dwalin is equally clueless when they relate the encounter to him and Dís later. Dís, on the other hand, snorts and shakes her head.

"Dwarrows," she mutters with a twist to her lips. "No damn sense in you." She knocks on her brothers' foreheads, and they push her hands away. Ignoring Frerin's 'hey' and Thorin's grimace, she explains, "He's worried about you." 'Thickheaded idiots' is strongly implied.

"Well, he will have to get over it." Frerin crosses his arms over his chest and pouts. "I'm honestly tired of all the mooning 'Rin's been doing."

Thorin scowls.

"What? It's true. We are all sick of waiting for you to make a move. When are you going to craft him something?"

Thorin sighs, deflating. "Not yet. He's just so..." He trails off, an uncharacteristically dreamy, longing expression overtaking his features.

"Yes, that's what I’m talking about, thank you." Frerin gestures at Thorin to illustrate his point, and Dwalin snorts. Thorin's scowl returns.

"Don't fret, brother." Frerin pats his shoulder. "I'm sure you will feel more confident once we return from Khazad-dûm victorious with tales of our own to tell. Bilbo won't know what will hit him! He'll fall into your arms as soon as you present him with a courting gift."

"Shut it." Thorin colours but doesn't contradict the prediction. His hopes and wishes run along the same lines.

"Aw," Dís coos, only slightly mockingly, "you are such romantics at hearts."

Dwalin barks a laugh and starts speculating on the perfect first gift for the hobbit.

_'A trowel,’_ Thorin thinks. _'Practical and reliable. Sensible. Like Bilbo himself.'_

Bilbo, meanwhile, is busy arranging sword fighting lessons. It's been years since he put Sting and his Mithril shirt into a chest and forgot about them. (Not really. He just pretends that he did and only opens that chest once a decade to remind himself of the past regrets. It used to be once a year on the anniversary of Thorin, Kíli, and Fíli's deaths, but time blunts all hurts and softens memories’ hard edges.) Despite Dwalin's efforts, he was never the best swordsman, and now he is grossly out of practice. Bilbo dons his Mithril shirt and picks up the sword once more and starts training in earnest.

He is quick on his feet but barely passable at fighting stances. Still, his determination makes up for a lot. He runs through drills every day and eventually, when his Man instructor is satisfied with his performance, Bilbo finds an old dwarven warrior willing to teach him. It isn't an apprenticeship, the dwarf explains at the start; he isn't close to deathbed for one thing, and Bilbo is of the wrong race, for another. Still, they work well together, and Bilbo feels sufficiently prepared for the upcoming war. Over the years, he gains enough strength to swing a sword for hours straight and stress-bakes a million pies and pastries for friends and neighbours. And while Bilbo's mad baking skills are highly appreciated, a lot of said friends and neighbours start to worry about weight gain.

Girion dies at the ripe old age of ninety-five, leaving Bilbo bereft of one of his oldest friends and with a startling realisation of his own age. He knows Men's lives are shorter than hobbits', but he met Girion as a Man in his prime, and Bilbo himself was already in his fifties. It doesn't add up. Bilbo studies his reflection in a mirror and finds no change. He looks the same as he did yesterday or the day before. He doesn't look quite the same as he did a _year_ before, mainly because of the added bulk to his arms and torso, but his face? His hair? Aside from a need for a haircut, he could be looking at a painting from decades back. His fifty-first birthday, even.

"What in Eru's name?.." he mutters, tugging at his cheek. The skin is as supple as he expects. He is, what, close to a hundred? He does the math. Ninety-eight. When did that happen? Why in the world does he still look like he is fifty? The question hangs over him like a raincloud. Bilbo has given up reasoning why and how he got to the past pretty quickly, figuring the Valar had a hand in that and were he to know, they would have found a way to explain it to him. But the lack of ageing? 'It must be for a purpose,' he muses. 'Perhaps, I have a task I must do that I haven't completed yet. Or maybe it's time travel itself, and my ageing will resume the year I left?' It is an interesting conundrum, but one he ultimately can't solve. After a while, Bilbo puts it out of mind and focuses on the present.

It takes three years for the Quest of Khazad-dûm to go from an idea, through planning and all the preparatory stages, to the inevitable and, in Bilbo's case, much-dreaded action. Thráin sends a scouting party to the East Gate. The dwarves are caught before they enter the mountain, and all but one are slaughtered. Their beheaded, mutilated bodies are thrown outside for the scavengers. The surviving dwarf, injured and disfigured, limps back to Erebor with a message from Azog: "Come, and you will suffer the same fate." Erebor doesn't take it well, to put it mildly. The whole kingdom is frothing at the mouth to pay the orcs back.

The army is set to march off in the spring of 2819. Thanks to the familiarity with his work, his connections to the royal family, and the exposure to his pastries, Bilbo joins the Quest, but not as a soldier. He's an independent chronicler. There are, of course, dwarven scribes, each stationed with different parts of the army. They all will be travelling the first part of the journey as a group, and to foster positive working relationships, they meet a month before send-off. After initial standoffishness (Bilbo, an outsider, is one of the few lucky bastards to get a much-coveted posting) and secret fanboying passes (Bilbo's books are famous, all right?), Bilbo befriends most of them over shared interests in history and literature. The pies help, too.

"No, Bilbo can't come with us. It's too dangerous!" Thorin growls in a fit of hypocrisy when he hears the news. "I won't be able to keep him safe."

"He'll be fine, brother," Dís says. "He won't be on the battlefield, and besides, Bilbo's a fighter. He will not thank you for doubting him."

"I know that, but— It's been years since his last adventure! He's accustomed to a different life now," Thorin protests, his heart doing somersaults just imagining his love facing a horde of filthy, bloodthirsty orcs and goblins.

"He will see you defeat more enemies than Azaghâl and swoon at your feet. You'd better catch him, though. It won't do for Bilbo to get a concussion thanks to your clumsiness." Frerin smirks, and Thorin swats at him like he's a fly.

"None of that now. As Dís said, he won't be anywhere close enough to the fighting." But a block of ice settles in his stomach and won't melt, no matter how hard Thorin tries to reassure himself.

His gut feeling is spot on. To think that anyone could escape engagement is, of course, ridiculously optimistic. It is a war, and wars are often unpredictable.

The joint forces of Erebor and other dwarven clans come to the East Gate of Khazad-dûm. They force an entry, and the war begins. As in Bilbo's previous timeline, though he doesn't know it, the dwarves sweep through the goblin-holds from Mount Gundabad in the North to the peak of Methedras, conquering each of them. This timeline, however, the dwarves have an advantage: their numbers weren't decimated in dragon fire; they aren't struggling to find resources, and neither do their numbers consist of youth. Instead, there are hardened, experienced warriors who never suffered malnutrition. With a secure home base to provide reinforcements and supplies and a place to fall back if things go tits up, they pour like a storm tide into the underground tunnels.

Still, it is a war, and wars demand casualties. It's long and exhausting, and Bilbo, a surface-dweller with a deep-rooted love for green things, is stuck underground, surrounded by thick stone walls and absence of sunlight and death, so much death day in and day out. He endures. Somehow, he doesn't know how, perhaps, on determination alone, he makes it to the end with his sanity intact.

Contrary to Thorin's hopes and expectations, to keep an accurate account of the events, Bilbo often finds himself near the front lines. He tries at first not to get involved in the fighting for fear of getting in the way, but that concern takes a backseat as soon as Thorin is injured.

"It's just a scratch, it won't even scar," Thorin says to stop Bilbo's fretting, though he secretly enjoys the attention. His wrist is smothered in a herbal paste and tightly bandaged, and there's a healing cut on his ear that itches something awful, but he stops himself from touching it. Bilbo will slap his hand away with that disapproving look that never fails to make Thorin feel like a dwarfling and—no, just no. Better to endure the itching.

Bilbo does stop fussing and during the next engagement slips into the melee when it gets underway, keeping as close to Thorin and Frerin as he dares. Funnily enough, dwarves generally don't pay him any mind. If he is noticed at all, he is ignored — a familiar face that's always at the princes' side, therefore not a threat. But more often than not, he doesn't garner any attention. He is a silent shadow, darting around, never engaging his opponents fully but striking from behind or from the sides and retreating, quick as a snake; he becomes scarily proficient at killing. He also gains a reputation among some of the soldiers. If they weren't dwarves and didn't value such skills, Bilbo would have become a bedtime story to frighten children into behaving. As it stands, he's regarded as a role-model for the rogues (who do notice and appreciate his contribution) and, privately and only in certain circles, the source of Thorin's anxiety and sour disposition.

Months pass, turning into years. Battle after battle, the dwarves push orcs and goblins back, decimating their forces and leaving mere stragglers to retreat deeper underground. It would be a decisive victory if not for the Durin's Bane. The Balrog is, of course, alive and kicking. It wakes up and is, in fact, pretty pissed off by all the commotion going on over its head. The only good thing in this is that the orcs and goblins are closer to it than the dwarves. The Balrog goes through them like a hot knife through butter while the dwarves, for once showing a modicum of self-preservation and common sense, run to the surface like hellhounds are snapping at their heels.

Both dwarves and their enemies don't stop fighting with each other, though, until they reach the gate and spill out of the mountain. There, the battle of Azanulbizar takes place, twenty-six years later than in the original timeline. And still, while some things differ, some are, it seems, inevitable. Thorin's shield breaks and, wounded, he fights with an oak branch. Azog kills Náin, the Lord of the Iron Hills, and is killed in turn by the freshly orphaned Dáin. And while Bilbo is saddened for Dáin's loss — he's become fond of the dwarf who is only five years older than Dís and Dwalin and shouldn't be here in the first place, for Eru's sake! — Bilbo is viciously, viscerally glad to see Azog dead.

He himself spends the battle weaving around Thorin and Frerin, out of their lines of sight, and hamstringing anyone who closes in on them. Bilbo has, in fact, become so skilled in keeping a low profile, hiding behind the wide-shouldered and barrel-chested dwarves, that orcs never see him coming. And while he can't be in two places at once, he knows Thorin will make it out alive. When the brothers are forced apart, Bilbo sticks to Frerin's back like a fly to tree sap. It is through Bilbo's effort that the worse Frerin suffers is a broken arm. While dwarven bones are hard to heal and even simple breaks are prone to complications, it's a far cry better than death.

This time, it is not Azog who raises an axe to behead Frerin. It's Bolg. Reminiscent of Thorin in the other timeline, Frerin is sprawled on the ground, a snarling orc looming over him. And as he did before, Bilbo comes to the rescue. He doesn't stand guard over Frerin’s body, however, knowing the futility of meeting orc strength head-on through both lessons and experience. Instead, with all his might, he stabs the orc in the back, piercing his body clean through. Bolg dies, and Bilbo once again hailed a hero.

"Frerin!" Thorin limps over, blood soaking the reinforced leather under his armour — there's a gash on his left leg. He ascertains that Frerin, groggy and disoriented after a severe blow to the head but getting better by the minute, will survive and turns to the hobbit.

"Bilbo," Thorin exhales.

"You are all right," Bilbo says, drinking in the sight of his most favourite dwarf in the whole of Middle-earth.

Thorin sways on his feet, exhaustion and blood loss taking a toll. And he is filthy, covered in gore and sweat besides, and there's a twig caught in his braids — the ones he keeps in his beard, that is; his hairstyle is the same as it was before — but to Bilbo, he is the most wonderful sight. Besides, Bilbo hasn't seen the outside of a bathtub in literal years. He went through all the same ordeals. He's no better off himself. Bilbo's heart aches but in a good way. High on adrenaline, he's overflowing with emotions.

Thorin's eyes are soft; he is breathing hard, clutching his sword and that stupid branch that will forever be a part of his name and staring at Bilbo like he can't take his eyes off him. They stay that way, silently looking at each other, for a few long moments, until a voice slurs from the ground,

"Oh, this is unbearable. Either kiss already or let me die in peace."

"Shut up, Frerin, you aren't dying," Thorin mutters reflexively, and Bilbo makes a strangled sound that is half-laugh and half-sob, and launches himself at the stupidly heroic dwarf. Just for a hug, mind you.

Thorin, of course, hugs him back, and Bilbo murmurs, "You are alive. I knew you would be, but I was so worried," and some other things that he won't recall later; he isn't really conscious of what comes out of his mouth. And Thorin, in a light-bulb moment, finally gets a clue that his feelings are reciprocated and shuts him up with a kiss.

"Hooray." Frerin sighs and closes his eyes. He's sure the nausea is a result of the concussion and not the saccharine, tooth-rotting display before him. Still, he wows to remember the details — for Dís and for the embarrassment value.

And so, the War of the Dwarves and Orcs ends with fewer casualties, but with similar results: orcs and goblins left scattered,cut down to an insignificant number, though nobody doubts they will multiply like vermin or, at least, nobody should. Some people who survived in the other timeline are dead, others are not, not that Bilbo knows about that either. In the end, Moria lies abandoned once more, only this time, there will not be an expedition to reclaim it in the far future. Thanks to the Balrog's early awakening, Balin, Ori and so many others will be safe.

Thráin leads his army back to Erebor, his sons alive but two of his cousins aren’t. Fundin and Nain's deaths weight on his heart and mind. After years of brutal, bloody battles and loses that are certainly sizeable but could have been heavier, they go home.

Bilbo returns to his Man-sized hut after six years away. It is comfortable and familiar, long since furnished and arranged to his liking, but never before did he want to burrow a Smial in the side of the Lonely Mountain so strongly, never did he miss Bag End with such overwhelming need for a hobbit-made, hobbit-sized home. For a while, he can't settle. He tidies up his notes and writes a coherent narrative of the War, wrangles his overgrown despite the efforts of a hired-hand garden into order, spends hours under the sun tending to plants, and barely sleeps at nights. He thought he saw everything on the Quest of Erebor. Turns out, nothing could have prepared him for a real war.

It will take decades for the nightmares to fade completely, but for now, Bilbo dreams of battles won and lost, seeing events that never happened and enemies slain rising from their graves. Azog and Bolg are frequent visitors — they often kill Thorin and Frerin in different ways and settings. Warrior's fatigue, Men call it. Dwarves have another name for it. Hobbits don't, and if they did, the name was lost to the ages since their wandering days. And so, Bilbo struggles but perseveres and ultimately adjusts. He always does.

On the brighter side, Thorin presents him with the first courting gift.

Bilbo wrestles with his consciousness: on the one hand, he's been having feelings for Thorin since way back when, but on the other, he's known this Thorin since childhood. He watched him grow. It is a disturbing thought when he cares to dwell on it. And he is old — a hundred and six now. He feels like a creep and a lecher half the time just thinking about kissing the dwarf.

Much angst and indecisiveness later, Thorin wins Bilbo over, finally confessing that Bilbo is his One. To find a One is a—more or less—rare occurrence. Perhaps, three out of ten dwarves if that ever experience a nebulous feeling of missing someone, and only about half of them ever meet their 'other half'. Nothing can be an obstacle of such a union — no racial or age difference; platonic relationships do exist, and not all pairings end up in marriages. Bilbo toys with the idea of their relationship being a familial one or a mentorship, but in the end, he can't deny their mutual attraction.

The courtship starts. Unlike hobbitish simpler traditions, an official dwarven courtship is structured, with many steps (and gifts) to take (and make) in a certain order. It lasts for ten years. Still, Thorin and Bilbo get together, much to everyone's relief, and are cute and ridiculous, fiercely in love. Time passes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confused Dís' birth year with Dwalin's, so now they are the same age. I thought about turning it into a different dimension, not just a timeline, but that way lies angst, and this fic is supposed to be a fix-it. Also, I'm mixing book and movies' canon. Only one chapter left, folks. Promise! =)


	4. Chapter 4

Time passes. Bilbo and Thorin (and Dís and their mother) agree on the wedding ceremony: traditional dwarven rites with a dash of hobbitish flavour — flowers, ribbons, and an indoor garden. Their marriage is set for the first day of spring, 2836. Before that happens, however, Bilbo tells his husband-to-be about his early life. It would be dishonest not to. Cue some angst with Thorin suddenly doubting himself despite the decade of their courtship.

"Did you love him?" he asks Bilbo.

"You," Bilbo says. "I love you. And he is you. Or was. You would have become him if I did nothing."

Thorin waits in silence, and Bilbo sighs.

"I do not know. I think, perhaps, I did, a long time ago. We didn't spend long together, you understand, and he was... difficult. Sharp-edged, but also brave and honest, and kind to the people he cared about, and infinitely sad." Bilbo shakes his head. "I think I was infatuated. It could have become something more, but then gold sickness took his mind, and after that, he died, and I woke up in the past." He looks at Thorin imploringly, willing him to understand. "It doesn't matter, Thorin. You are and aren't him, but I am in love with you, not with a ghost or a reflection or any such nonsense you are imagining in that broody mind." Bilbo taps Thorin's forehead between his eyebrows and Thorin's frown easies. "You are mine, and I am yours, and my feelings are for you," Bilbo says and points at the dwarf's heart. "For _this_ you only."

They do get married after that. Girion's son—Bilbo's honorary nephew—and his family are at Bilbo's side. The Man is seventy-six, with grown-up children and _grandchildren._ He is another friend who Bilbo knows since childhood and who he will, undoubtedly, outlive.

The ceremony is nice, if too stately for Bilbo's taste. There are many guests in attendance, which Bilbo doesn’t mind — it reminds him of the Shire — but Thorin would have preferred a more intimate setting. Thorin, though, is the crown prince; there are obligations and a public image to uphold. They have a private celebration with family and close friends afterwards.

Bilbo moves into the mountain, but keeps his house, for now. He loves his garden, and it may prove useful in the future. He can always gift it to Girion's line later.

Quietly and without forewarning, Thrór passes away. Much like his reign, his funeral is a grand affair. Thráin declares year-long mourning. His coronation is held on the first day after that period ends, in the year 2841.

Mirkwood elves send another delegation but with poor timing: they come two weeks after Thrór's death, and Thráin, incredulous and outraged by their callous insensitivity, refuses to deal with them past the initial request. He's just lost his father. He is _genuinely_ _mourning_ , not simply following traditions. Doesn't Thranduil understand that? Doesn't he possess any tact? Apparently, not when it comes to dwarves. (Of course, he does. However, his feelings and opinion concerning Thrór cloud his judgement. His reaction sums up to a cheerful 'Good riddance!' and a celebratory drink, but cooler and in style. He's mildly baffled why everyone in Erebor doesn't feel the same. That cantankerous dwarf was _intolerable_.) Either way, the result is the same: no White Gems for the Elvenking. At least, not yet.

"Elves." Dwalin spits on the ground. "What did you expect?"

Thorin frowns. Frerin sighs, disappointed he won't get to practise his spider-killing skills in the foreseeable future. No way his father will let him join the Mirkwood patrols _now_.

Another decade flies by. Some dwarves, unsatisfied with the failure of Moria and looking for a new place to mine, travel to Ered Luin. There are already established dwarven dwellings on the eastern side of the Blue Mountains, so they settle in the Southern range, beyond the Shire. They keep in touch with Erebor through ravens.

On Bilbo's advice, the Ered Luin dwarves — both on the eastern side and in the South — make contact with the Shire and establish trade routes. The Fell Winter may be decades away, and in this timeline, Ered Luin settlements aren't overcrowded, and thus the mines are not depleted, but the relationships will benefit both their people, Bilbo is sure. And it soothes an ache in his heart he pretends isn't there when he thinks about his once-home. He will, of course, contact the Thain closer to the Fell Winter and make sure — as much as he can — that the Shire fares better this time around. His parents’ heaths won't be crippled. This timeline's Bilbo won't be orphaned as barely an adult.

Dís starts a courtship of her own. She is efficient and competent and the most badass dwarrowdam Bilbo will ever know. Even were Víli not her One, he wouldn't stand a chance of not returning her feelings. Frerin, too, meets a dwarf who captures his heart, though not a 'One' — he doesn't feel the pull. In the summer of 2859, Fíli is born. As usual, the whole mountain celebrates the event, but this time, Bilbo is among those few who gets to see the newborn. Just one look at the tiny infant makes his heart swell in the confines of his chest. Along with Thorin and Frerin, he falls in love with his nephew, a love at first sight. Five years later, Kíli joins their family and is equally adored.

At long last, Gandalf visits. He has been to Dale and Erebor soon after Smaug's death, of course, and even met Bilbo, but Bilbo was still in shock. Bilbo had a difficult year, all right? He was half in mourning and half in disbelief and waiting to wake up—in a tent and with his head heavily bandaged—at any moment. He was nowhere close to a suitable mindset for any confessions. Sometimes—less frequently as time goes on—he wakes up unsure if he didn't dream up the whole thing. Now, after almost a hundred years since his appearance in Erebor, after almost a hundred years of carrying this huge Secret, even as Bilbo starts to toy with the idea of confiding in Frerin and Dís, it's strange to think about telling his story to anyone else.

But Gandalf with his unchanging appearance looks like he could have knocked on Bag End's door just yesterday (or tomorrow, depending on the point of view). He reminds Bilbo of the Quest of Erebor, unknowingly simplifying the matter. Feeling nostalgic and sentimental, Bilbo comes clean to the wizard, who takes the tale unexpectedly well.

Gandalf hums and hmms, smokes, blowing tangy grey clouds, and lapses into silence for so long, Bilbo fears he doesn’t have anything to say. But no, of course, he does. And the question, when it comes, is quite unexpected:

"Did you have anything with you when you woke up in the past?" Gandalf asks, puffing on his pipe. The fragrance makes Bilbo's mouth water. He's become used to the harsher dwarven and mannish pipe-weed blends, but Old Toby smells like _home_.

"Just my clothes and Sting." Bilbo frowns, thinking. "Oh, and the ring."

"The ring?" Gandalf asks, leaning forward.

"Just a simple trinket, really," Bilbo says slowly, unsure at the wizard's sudden interest. "I picked it up under the Misty Mountains..." and Bilbo elaborates on the Goblin Town and Gollum’s part of the story.

"It helped me in Mirkwood too," he remembers aloud. "It turns the wearer invisible." It would have been dead useful during the war, too, come to think of it. Strange, how the ring has slipped his mind so thoroughly.

"Hm." Gandalf nods. "May I see it?"

"Yes, of course," Bilbo says, getting up and trying to recall where he put it. And then the strangest thing happens. Abruptly, Bilbo doesn't want to show it. Not at all. He wants to hide it or hug it to his chest and hunch over it, hissing 'mine' like a deranged animal. He shakes his head to clear it.

"Gandalf," he says, sitting back on his chair. "I think there's something wrong with me." And Bilbo describes the situation. He forces himself to bring a small chest housing the ring out of the closet.

As Gandalf crouches before the chest, he looks more worried than Bilbo has ever seen him, and Bilbo needs all his willpower and thoughts of his loved ones to keep still and not throw himself on the lid to prevent the wizard from opening it. He turns away, sitting on his hands and biting his lips bloody.

Gandalf does something. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo sees a flash in the fireplace. He hears Gandalf's sigh.

"It is as I feared," the wizard says, voice heavy and troubled. "This is the One Ring, Bilbo." The _Sauron’s One Ring_. That ring.

The news goes down like a lead balloon. Gandalf proposes to speak with the White Council and with the assistance of ravens arranges it to happen in just a few months. Of course, it's not anywhere convenient, like Erebor. It's all the way in Rivendell. (Though nobody knows about the Ring now, Gandalf fears that inviting the White Council to the Lonely Mountain will tip their hand. The servants of the Enemy will inevitably hear about it. After all, they did start the Moria ordeal. Conscious of the need for secrecy, he asks Lord Elrond to arrange the Council for him.)

In this timeline, Thorin doesn't hate all elves indiscriminately. He doesn't hate them at all, to be clear. He just _dislikes_ them. This Thorin grew up on Bilbo's tales of courage and cunning. He is still headstrong and stubborn, set in his opinions too quickly and too strongly, but though Dís insists that he is hopeless, he does possess _some_ diplomatic skills. Accompanied by a suitable escort, he, Frerin and Bilbo go to Rivendell on a pretence of travelling to Ered Luin to visit the settlements.

Saruman the White is yet to delve too deep into dark magic. He hasn't looked into a palantír, and though he is  a condescending jerk disenchanted with the mortal and immortal races alike and is well on the way to desiring the Ring above all else in a quest for power, he isn't outright evil. However, it is a close call, as his moral decline is almost at its end.

Back in Erebor, Bilbo told Gandalf of the trouble Mirkwood faced in the future, about Gandalf's departure from the Company and what little he revealed of his time in Dol Guldur afterwards. Gandalf meets with Radagast, and, discreetly, they investigate the matter. What they find is so far from reassuring, it may as well be on the moon. The very air of Mirkwood is slowly being poisoned. Sauron has returned.

Sending invitations, Lord Elrond takes it a step farther. The Council of Elrond gathers representatives of all prominent people of Middle-earth. Thorin, Frerin, and Dwalin stand for Erebor. Bilbo — for the Shire. Legolas leads Mirkwood's delegation. Gondor's Ruling Steward, Belecthor II, sends his grandson, Túrin II. From Rohan comes one of the king's trusted advisers, the Second Marshal of the Riddermark.

King Folcwine's oldest children — twin sons — are too young, and Rohan is still recovering after the orc's incursions. After over four decades of conflicts, the Éorlingas finally drove out the last of Moria orcs earlier in the year. Fulfilling his oath to hunt only when no orc remains on the Rohirrim land, Folcwine's father, Folca, went after the monstrous Boar of Everholt and died taking it down just two months ago. Adding to that the ongoing hostilities with the Dunlendings, and Folcwine doesn't feel like he can leave the kingdom.

From the Rangers comes Argonui, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. As the truth of the Ring is revealed, Elrond outs his identity, proclaiming him the heir of Isildur, the rightful High King of Arnor and Gondor. It is all very dramatic, and Túrin swears his allegiance, which Argonui accepts but states that he won't return to Gondor as king until the destruction of the evil trinket—the Ring's destruction being, of course, an indisputable goal of this gathering—and Sauron's ultimate defeat. It is, perhaps, time to reforge the sword of Elendil.

Similarly to the timeline that would have been, a Fellowship is formed. Many volunteer.

"The Enemy is unaware of the Ring's discovery," Gandalf says. "We should exercise discretion to keep it this way for as long as possible. The fewer people go on this journey, the better."

As Bilbo has spent half a century in some proximity to the Ring and with no apparent ill effect, he will continue to be its bearer. Thorin, Frerin, and Dwalin will go with him, without question. Legolas, Túrin, and Argonui join, too, as does the Éorling. (Let's name him Edmond, which means wealth and protection, protector and suits him well for he is a protector at his core and generous with his regards and friendships.)

The plan is for Gandalf to contact the Eagles and ask for their help. While he does so, the Fellowship chills out in Rivendell. Unanimously, the dwarves opt to stay in the same place if not the same room.

"Please, don't break any furniture," Bilbo mutters, climbing onto a sinfully comfortable bed.

The set of connected chambers they are given have fourteen beds in total, one for each dwarf and one slightly bigger — suitable for a dwarf and a hobbit. All are of the smallish size that must have been meant for children, as are the chairs and tables. Very considerate of the elves, really. Delicately whittled privacy screens that denote the sleeping areas for now stand to the sides of the beds.

"Why would we do that?" Frerin asks, examining the carvings with the critical eye of a master.

"Oh, no reason. Don't mind me," Bilbo mutters, sinking onto the mattress. It's been a long journey and a longer day with the Council gathering the morning of their arrival.

Thorin frowns, but then his eyes widen in understanding. He smirks. "Only if they feed us real food."

"Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo says, raising on his elbows, "I forbid you to harm any helpless, fluffy animal that lives in the gardens while we are in Rivendell. Even if all you are given is greens and bread!"

"As you say, husband."

Bilbo narrows his eyes. "That was surprisingly quick."

Smiling, Thorin comes over and plants a kiss on Bilbo's lips. "You didn't say anything about the surrounding woods, amrâlimê."

He silences Bilbo's protests with another kiss, while the rest of the dwarves — some looking away and humming, some —cough-cough-Frerin-cough— calling 'get a room!' and laughing— file out to the rest of the chambers or go in search of the aforementioned food.

The next day, Lady Galadriel seeks Bilbo out, her voice whispering in his head and leading him to a garden. She invites him to look into the water of a basin. Instead of his reflection, Bilbo sees the past and the future. Some scenes are from this timeline, while others are from his old one. It is confusing and disorienting, and his heart is heavy like it hasn't been in a long time. He sees Fíli and Kíli as middle-aged dwarrows with families of their own — spouses, children — and then he sees them lying on a battlefield, young, bloody and devoid of life. He sees Dís round with child, and sees her in mourning clothes, aged before her time, in what he assumes is Thorin’s Hall in Ered Luin, standing before Vili's tomb, and then himself as an old hobbit in Bag End, a youngling playing at his feet.

The visions come in glimpses of the blink-and-you-will-miss-it type, and at the end of it, Bilbo's head swims. He can't take it anymore. Without realising he's about to do it, his hand disturbs the water. The images ripple and stop. The water reflects the sky and trees above, and Bilbo swallows. His throat is dry and tongue unwieldy. For a while, he can't find his words.

Lady Galadriel gives him time to recover. They sit in silence that isn't heavy or stifling, but neither is it comfortable. It feels patient and yet expectant, like Galadriel can sit and wait for Bilbo to speak for centuries.

"Did you find your answers?" she asks when Bilbo's breath and heartbeat return to normal.

He scrunches the hem of his tunic, wrings it in his hands. "I heard it is not wise to dwell on the past and could-have-beens." He swallows again, easier this time. "But I think it is equally unwise to spend too long contemplating the would-bes either. Planning for the future should not replace living in the present."

"Wise words, indeed. You know your heart and where you belong." The Lady smiles. "I am glad for you."

Bilbo turns to leave, and as he reaches the end of the garden, he hears her voice in his head again. _'Take care not to lose this insight.'_

Three days later, the Eagles come, and the Quest officially begins. While Balin leads the majority of the dwarves to Ered Luin, Gandalf, Radagast, Galadriel, and Saruman fly to Dol Guldur, timing it just as the Eagles carrying the Fellowship get closer to Mordor. It's not as simple as flying over Mount Doom and throwing the Ring from up high, of course. The Eagles can't get too close to Sauron's lands and deposit the Fellowship in Ithilien. The Fellowship goes on foot from there, travelling at night, slipping past orc patrols and into Mordor.

The Ring tempts and whispers. The Men are affected the most. The Éorling begs Bilbo to give him the Ring so he can save his king's children. He saw visions of their demise in a great battle at the Crossing of Poros, but of course, Túrin wants to use the blasted thing to help his own people, too. Fighting ensues. Edmond and Túrin go at each other with naked blades.

While tempers run high, Bilbo removes the temptation and hides behind a boulder. He waits as the dwarves, Argonui and Legolas talk sense into the Men, who, once calmed down, have decided that since Edmond's visions took place on Gondorian territory, they are okay to work together and share the trinket. Still, they do come to see the evil influence of the Ring, and so, the Fellowship continues on.

With no guide and only old, outdated maps to help them navigate the terrain, reaching Mount Doom is a difficult task, to say the least. Provisions run short. More than once, they lose the way and are forced to backtrack and find another path. The newest map they have is _ancient_ , a lot has changed since its creation.

The orcs they come across they either avoid or fight and kill to the last one — can't risk detection. Dwalin is injured, and Edmond almost dies, but still, they move forward and persevere.

There's a brief period of time when the dwarves and Legolas are at each other's throats. With who Legolas’ father is and the dwarves being who they are, it's inevitable.

"Mahal help me," Thorin growls, "if you so much as mention the White Gems or Jewels or whatever they are, I will get them for you myself and shove them so up your pasty—"

"Thorin!" Bilbo tugs at his arm, and Thorin switches to a rapid-fire khuzdul, though Bilbo, of course, understands him perfectly.

"—you will choke on them!" Thorin finishes in Westron.

Legolas answers in kind, only in Sindarin, and again, Bilbo is one of the few who gets his side of the conversation. He and Argonui take hold of their husband and friend, respectively, and drag them in opposite directions.

But shared hardship has a way of bringing people together. Once they save each other's lives over a dozen times, the members of the Fellowship all do end up good friends if not life-long companions.

In the end, the task is done. Bilbo finds the strength to throw the Ring into the lava while Dwalin and Legolas keep the Men from interfering. Nothing changes. It’s more than slightly anticlimactic. With fewer difficulties, the Fellowship goes to Gondor and meets with Gandalf there.

The wizards and Lady Galadriel drove off the Necromancer, destroyed Dol Guldur and purified the earth. They are hopeful that in time, Mirkwood will recover. It may never become the beautiful forest it once was, but with the source of its sickness gone, it will eventually get better.

"I have this nagging feeling," Bilbo says to Thorin after they slept for two days straight, ate what feels like their weight in food, washed the untold amount of grime and soot, and — in Bilbo's case — burned their travel clothes because of their unsalvageable state and associated unpleasant memories. "Like it was too easy, wasn't it?"

"That was _easy?_ " Thorin demands.

But a horrible thought occurs to Bilbo. Alone, he corners Gandalf in the gardens on the upper level of Minas Tirith.

"Gandalf, we destroyed the _future_ Ring. But what of the Ring of this time? We haven't checked if Gollum still has it!" He is half-hysterical. After the ordeal he's just gone through, dragged his husband and brothers (in-law and in-arms) and friends through, and all for, well, not for nothing, but. It is an _unfortunate_ thing to overlook.

Gandalf pales to a dramatic degree. “Oh.”

And Bilbo curses himself an old fool and an idiot. For a bunch of smart people, that oversight was really stupid. Gandalf recovers first.

"I thought with your arrival, the first Ring have dissolved and the older Ring took its properties in full, but—"

And suddenly, Bilbo’s sure Gandalf is inventing his explanation on the spot.

“Gandalf, I dearly hope you aren't implying that I _took_ _young Bilbo's place!_ He isn't even _born yet!_ "

"Of course, not, my friend," Gandalf says, calming Bilbo down slightly. "Nothing of the sort. A living soul cannot be displaced this way, not without a considerable amount of dark magic, and never unintentionally."

"Then why on this green earth did you think that of the Ring?"

"Why, indeed?" Gandalf hums, turning thoughtful. "But Bilbo, could you have carried two Rings of Power at once? Truly?"

That is a valid question.

Sitting down on a bench, Gandalf lights up his pipe, sharing his pouch of pipe-weed with Bilbo. They smoke in silence while the wizard thinks.

"I feel, a second Quest was always destined to be. Your presence changed a lot — and for the better — but everything requires balance. Perhaps, this Quest was your payment."

That sounds reasonable to Bilbo.

“Bilbo,” Gandalf starts, turning to the hobbit. The wizard looks tired and as old as his true age. “I have no right to ask this of you—”

“Yes. Yes, all right. If there's a second One Ring, I will carry it, too.” He will help to end the Dark Lord even if he has to ferry all twenty of his cursed jewellery, damn it.

“At least, we know the way,” Frerin says brightly when Bilbo breaks the news. He does divulge the details of _why_ there are _two_ _One Rings_ , and Frerin and Dwalin are somewhat offended he didn't tell them sooner but understanding. In the face of all he did for them (and Erebor), they would have forgiven him even if he started drowning kittens and puppies every morning and before their eyes. They’d be alarmed and perturbed, but—Anyway. Moving on.

The number of people aware of the First Quest of the Ring is still pretty small. Túrin, of course, tells about it to his father and grandfather upon the conclusion of the Quest. The Ruling Steward is astonished by the turn of events and has somewhat mixed feelings on the return of their king. He never thought it would happen. Argonui postpones making the news public, which easies the adjustment. Belecthor feels his remaining years rapidly dwindling (he's one hundred and seventeen years old at this point). His son, Thorondir, is eighty-seven. It’s doubtful he will rule for long. Well, it all comes down to Túrin being the next in line, really, and Túrin is firmly on the ‘let's crown Argonui’ bandwagon.

After catching their breaths, the whole Fellowship plus Gandalf go to the Misty Mountains, though they do it in secret on the pretence of travelling — or escorting Argonui in Túrin's case — home. Only the Fellowship and the wizard know the real reason. With some wandering, they do find the correct entrance, which leads to Gollum’s dwelling place. Not wanting to intimidate (too much) the pitiful creature, only half the Fellowship goes with Gandalf inside the mountain. After an hour of walking, they hear Gollum's mutterings. He does have the Ring. The quest is a go, time the second.

Confronting the creature head-on, Gandalf asks about the Ring. Sméagol cowers and pretends he knows nothing about it, all the while talking to himself, and Bilbo steps forward, demanding he answer the wizard honestly. And, feeling cornered, Sméagol's personality switches. Enraged, Gollum jumps at Bilbo—and dies, impaled on Thorin's sword. Call it dwarven battle instincts —see a threat, eliminate it— but like hell will Thorin stand twiddling his thumbs when a demented creature lunges hands-first at his husband's throat.

They stand in silence, looking at each other: Thorin with a bloody sword and Bilbo, splattered with blood, a body at their feet. Orcrist emits a faint blue glow and a golden circle glints on the ground. The wizard and the Dúnedain might as well not be there.

"Bilbo?" Gandalf prompts.

"Right." To Bilbo's ears, his breathing is louder than a dwarven forge. "Right."

With warring feelings of great reluctance, an awful, shameful longing that he won't admit to having, and a stirring soul-deep terror, Bilbo steels himself and picks up the Ring. Its weight is mountainous in his pocket.

He insists on giving Gollum a funeral. As they are in a cave with no way to dig a grave, they find enough stones and rocks to build a cairn.

"This's all a very sad business," Bilbo comments later, torn between relief and regret. The creature scared him. It was like looking into a distorted mirror of what could be.

"It's better this way. He lost his mind a long time ago, I think. I’d wish someone to end my life if ever such a fate befalls me," Thorin says, and Argonui echoes his statement.

Bilbo thinks back to Thorin in the grip of gold sickness, gaunt and feverish, demanding the Company search for the Arkenstone without rest. He shivers. Banishing the memory, he squeezes Thorin's hand.

They walk back with heavier hearts and burdened minds. That night, seated around a campfire in the woods, they decide how to proceed. 'Don't tell anyone' is an obvious choice, but anyone in this case literally means no one,or _nearly so._

"Won't the rest of the White Council become suspicious? We destroyed the Ring, but Mordor still stands. Sauron is there." Bilbo shifts and fidgets, and Thorin drapes his arm around Bilbo's shoulders, drawing him closer.

Argonui pauses with a whetstone just above his sword. "Sauron has many servants. The Witch-king, the rest of the Nazgûl, they won't simply disappear with his defeat.”

Gandalf nods. "We do not know what other means Sauron could have devised or, indeed, did to cling to life."

And so they do not _tell_ anyone of the second One Ring. Saruman is right out. He was reluctant to destroy the first Ring. Who knows how he will react now. (Besides, Galadriel saw a starting corruption in his soul.) "No need to invite trouble," Gandalf decides. As for the Lady, more likely than not, she already knows.

Despite the extra secrecy, the Quest is harder the second go-round.

As he arranged through letters, Argonui goes to Rivendell to meet with a company of thirty Rangers led by his son, Arador. One conversation with Lord Elrond, a few strategic pauses and meaningful looks, and Elrond gets the picture.

Edmond goes to Rohan to inform King Folcwine of the possibility of their involvement in a war (as if their war with the Dunlendings ever ended) on Gondor's behalf. Frerin and Dwalin set off for Erebor to request aid for Gondor as well, as does Legolas, only with Mirkwood. The elf is realistic, though, and he doubts his father will agree to his request. Túrin, too, returns home to make arrangements. And Gandalf, Bilbo, and Thorin go to Lothlórien, where Lady Galadriel greets them with a knowing look and a promise of rest.

While the Lothlórien guests wait for the right moment — and for the rest of the Fellowship who once again will brave Mordor — several months pass. In theory, they can wait however long they want — nobody knows about the second One Ring, and the Enemy should have no idea that the Ring is found. But the sooner they get rid of it, the better. Why tempt fate? Still, the Valley of Singing Gold is beautiful and peaceful, and it does provide a respite for Bilbo's fraying nerves.

One day, Bilbo wakes up to the predawn light filtering through the trees and a voice in his head whispering, _'It is time.'_ He is not the only one. Thorin wakes along with him. Quietly, they pack their belongings and follow the voice to the pier, where they reunite with Frerin, Dwalin, and Legolas. After exchanging hugs and greetings, they turn to Lady Galadriel. She gifts them travel cloaks and some other appropriate items.

As Gandalf going to Mordor would be too conspicuous, the members of the slightly reduced Fellowship say their goodbyes and, with the wizard's and the Lady's blessings, they — reluctantly or not — climb into boats and drift down the Great River.

To Legolas' surprise, Thranduil did send a platoon of elves under Tauriel's command (Galadriel had a talk with the Elvenking after the White Council dealt with Dol Guldur), though he refused to let Legolas join. As if Legolas would have abandoned the Fellowship and stayed home! He sneaked out. Realising his son wasn’t just sulking in his rooms, Thranduil gathered another platoon of elves and chased after him. Not finding him with the first platoon, Thranduil assumed he’ll catch up with Legolas in Gondor.

Frerin and Dwalin, too, were successful: if elves can spare a platoon or two for the Men, so does Thráin, and he will do better than those leaf-eaters, or he will _shave his beard and eat it, damnit!_

Lady Galadriel leads her elves herself from the outset.

Argonui returns to Gondor, bringing the company of Northern Rangers, his heir, and an elven party as 'escort'. As a preplanned distraction, he declares his heritage. That gets Sauron's reaction and then some.

The Mordor-orcs, the Uruk-hai, and the Haradrim occupying South Gondor swarm the Ithilien region. The horn of Gondor blares. Honouring the Oath of Eorl, Rohan comes to Gondor's aid.

Reminiscent of his great-grandson in the other timeline, Argonui goes to Dwimorberg and travels the Paths of the Dead. He gathers the wraiths of the Oathbreakers and leads them to Ithilien, joining the Gondorian and Rohanian armies led by Thorondir and Folcwine, respectively, along the way.

The elves of Lothlórien and Mirkwood and the dwarves reach Gondor at the same time, providing a great reinforcement. (Thráin is deeply disappointed to see the Elvenking. He didn’t think that bare-faced, long-legged jerk would move his arse, especially not so far out of his kingdom. Thranduil isn’t any happier with this encounter.)

While that's all well and good for the Alliance and their chances against Mordor, Bilbo and his part of the Fellowship suffer under the strain of the Ring's influence. Thanks to the well-coordinated timing, their sneaking into Mordor goes off without a hitch. But the first One Ring was an extra piece of Sauron’s soul, an unforeseen second anchor. While out of its time, it wasn't actively seeking to reunite with its master. This Ring, however, does. Compared to the first Ring, this one is Extra Strength, By Prescription Only, and there are fewer targets for it to focus on.

It tempts and whispers and taunts, and Bilbo’s nightmares return in full force. Once more, he barely sleeps at nights. The third time his hand strays to his pocket by itself, Bilbo puts the Ring into a pouch and sews it shut.

Halfway to their destination, the dwarves, made especially vulnerable by their susceptibility to gold sickness, fall under the Ring's spell, and Bilbo is forced to clobber his husband over the head to return him to his senses. Frerin, thank Eru, comes to himself on his own, and just in time to help Legolas subdue Dwalin who didn't take the perceived attack on Thorin well. Bilbo makes his unconscious husband as comfortable as can be under a rocky outcrop and excuses himself to have a silent breakdown unchaperoned.

Thorin finds him later. He sinks to his knees before the hobbit, heedless of volcanic ash and sharps rocks digging into his legs.

"Forgive me, badgûn. I am so sorry—"

Bilbo touches Thorin's lips with the tips of his fingers, silencing him.

"It's all right, my love. There's nothing to forgive. This Ring is powerful." He rubs his arms, but it does not dispel the bone-deep cold that's been following him since the Misty Mountains. "I feel its influence, too. I can hear its false promises even now." He pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off a forming headache, drawing Thorin's attention to the deep shadows under his eyes. Nowadays, Bilbo is lucky to get two hours of rest.

Thorin hugs him then. Kissing Bilbo's temple, he murmurs, "It will be over soon, khebabmudtu. You are so incredibly strong, its foul sorcery will never sway you."

Pressing his face to the hollow of Thorin's throat, Bilbo breaths in the familiar smell and slowly calms down. He will finish the Quest. There's no other choice. (In his mind, the Ring _whispers_.)

The dwarves recover their wits, pick up and dust their crumpled spirits, grind their teeth. That night, they talk among themselves and swear to resist the Ring, and if someone slips, the others will pull him back, by force if needed. They are dwarves. They were made to endure.

The Fellowship goes on.

It is said that no living man can defeat the Nazgûl. Good thing half of the Alliance’ force consists of elves and dwarves. Glorfindel, Galadriel, and Tauriel get a shining moment each slaying a Ringwraith. Not to be outdone by the tree shaggers, Thráin kills one, too. But Arwen still outshines them all, killing the Witch-king with one precise hit. (Dís would have been there, too, and damn the dwarrows' overprotectiveness of the dwarrodams. She'd have liked nothing more than to give her axes a workout, but as the battle rages, she's busy delivering the latest addition to the Durin family.)

Not all goes well. Argonui takes a blow meant for Túrin. Making the hardest decision of his life to date, Bilbo chucks the pouch with the Ring into the lava. The volcano rumbles. On the battlefield, holding Argonui's hand as the life goes out of the Dúnedain's eyes, Túrin swears to see Arador a crowned king.

The Fellowship barely makes it down Mount Doom. Interrupting heartfelt goodbyes, Legolas shouts, “Eagles!” and as the volcano starts to erupt, the Eagles swoop in and save them.

In the courtyard of Minas Tirith, on the dying White Tree of Gondor, a single branch sprouts fresh green leaves. And on the day of Arador's coronation, that branch will bud with flowers.

** Bonus Content: **

In this 'verse, Dís and Balin are best friends. As impressionable dwarflings, Bilbo accidentally introduced them to the art of polite insults he perfected dealing with Lobelia. It quickly became a game to see who could come up with the best, politest wordings (targeting only deserving people) that goes unnoticed. One of the proudest moment of Bilbo's life is when Dís outdid him for the first (and far from the last) time.

At some point, Bilbo meets Dori and Nori and their young _cousin_ Ori and is very surprised by this development. Apparently, in the first timeline, Ori's parents perished when he was young. In this time, his mother is alive, but his father still died in Moria.

Somewhat unusually for dwarves, Dís goes on to have two more children, totalling the number of her kids at five.

The elves do not sail to Valinor just yet. Thranduil gets his White Gems back. As a wedding present sent to his House when Legolas marries Gimli.

All characters who made it alive to the end of this story live very happy and long lives.

**The end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here you have it — my version of a fix-it. Originally, I was aiming for under 5k words, but the story didn’t want to end. It was my 'happy place' for the last few weeks. Almost nobody died! What? Them? *covers piles of dwarven bodies with a tarp* Oh, that's just Moria, you know. Eh? *rolls out and spreads a larger tarp over more corpses* What about them? The Men would have died anyway. The Mordor-orcs and the Haradrim were scheduled to invade in 2885, and the Uruk-hai (also bred in Mordor, btw) in 2901. Folca lived 5 years longer, and I saved Folcwine's kids Folcred and Fastred, too! The new line of inheritance probably won't lead to Théoden, but who knows. *shrugs*
> 
> The dwarves? Many of them probably died a century earlier in canon. The elves? I simply hurried up the inevitable throw-down of 3019. And is it even true death when only their bodies get destroyed? And anyway, a lot less people died since the Men fought essentially the same number of enemies they would have fought anyway (plus the Nazgûl), but with elves, dwarves and Rangers on their side, so. Argonui would have lived for another 42 years, though. But. Can't make an omelette without a cow (you need milk for it), or some such. I tried to keep the story realistic. Sauron not finding out about the Ring _was_ pushing it, but I figured it's not _impossible_ if Bilbo never put on the Ring (either one of them) and ran with it.
> 
> **  
> Credits and Acknowledgements:  
> **
> 
> [Tolkien Gateway](http://tolkiengateway.net/), [LOTR Wiki](https://lotr.fandom.com/wiki/Main_Page/), [The Dwarrow Scholar](en.wikipedia.com>Wikipedia</a>,%C2%A0<a%20href=), [Hobbit Ages by Dreamflower](https://www.lotrgfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=216), [Comparative Ages of Dwarves and Men by Lisa Williams](http://axebow.lcwsites.net/archive/0/comparativeages.html), [Khuzdul Pet Names and other Endearments](https://khuzdul4u.tumblr.com/post/118948362748/khuzdul-pet-names-and-other-endearments-bulk)
> 
>  **Khuzdul Translations:**  
>   
>  amrâlimê — “love-of-me”  
> my lovebadgûn — ”dream-man”, a good way to express the whole idea of a One in Khuzdul  
> khebabmudtu — ”heart-forge”; the forge where my heart is made
> 
> [This fic's timeline](https://afrokot-jl.tumblr.com/post/630929431876288513)
> 
> And also, check out this thread on Reddit:  
> [How did the Eagles manage to rescue Frodo and Sam at Mt Doom and still have time to record "Hotel California"?](https://www.reddit.com/r/AskHistorians/comments/30xr52/how_did_the_eagles_manage_to_rescue_frodo_and_sam/)
> 
> =)


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